He's just Got the Flu
by DannyPhantomOfTheAvatar
Summary: John's journey with Sherlock through just another rough patch in life.
1. Chapter 1

The first scare was the hardest so far, for John.

Getting off work an hour late, John strode to the flat thinking up any excuse. Tonight was the night he promised Sherlock to help him organize something or another, and even though he'd see through the white lie, it was somehow easier to say.

But the seconds of entering the flat he should have guessed something not right. The television was twenty clicks too high on a show his friend would never, ever watch. It was one detail that ran John up the many steps a little faster.

The flat looked the same, so far. The television was, again, so far, the only out of element thing wrong. John manually clicks the telly off. And the flat gets dead silent. His brain goes to a case from a few months back, where a radio was covering the noise from the screams of a murder victim.

Long shot, but it was the best theory. Only, another clue brings John's eyes to the floor leading to the bathroom. "Oh god, SHERLOCK?" A very thin, puddled blood mixture splayed the good wooden floors. Coming from the kitchen John walked right by.

This proved John should never be the one to do detective work.

"I am fine." A stubborn voice soothes John a small bit, but remember the bomb strapped people forced to phone family, friends.

He edges toward the bathroom, inhaling a large breath before figuring out the door was locked. "Just hold on, i'm coming in." Reassuring him no matter what he'd see. Whether it be Sherlock in trouble or Sherlock washing off pig's blood again, he just needs to sure.

As he makes a line around to his flatmate's room, he hears Sherlock gurgled protests and disagreement. "No, John, just don't come in."

John hears evident fingernails scratching up the door, and opens it gently. "I have to." John times to say as he squeaks the door open. And it was only Sherlock inside. Sherlock, a hand reaching for John's direction to lock the said door, coming from the ground. Sherlock, head leaned more over the toilet. Sherlock, his own vomit and blood stained down his nice white shirt.

"What did you do?" John didn't hesitate. Sherlock's state was far more serious than it looked, obviously. It always was. "Just sick. You need... need to, get. Get to work." Every word took ages to get out, his eyes searched for the other's, it wasn't a good scene.

"I went to work ten hours ago. How long have you been feeling this way?" As John kneels, he remembers the morning. Sherlock was hovering over his laptop, a thick blanket over his shoulders and tea from last night still on the table. Maybe he looked a little flu-like but not vomiting blood-sick.

That was the first, real, scare. But it was months later that Sherlock gave John a reason for the sickness.

The doctor found himself being by Sherlock's side more often, watching him carefully during cases and insisting a cab ride instead of long run. More times than most the genius would confess to feeling dizzy, only because the wrath of his doctor was worse than the passing out part. During a mad chase, Sherlock began wheazing. The full titled, Doctor John Watson, went into action.

It was about three in the morning then, and cold, but not freezing. The alleyway they were running down was the only comfort John could give his friend as he sat him down. The head of curls was looking straight ahead when he plopped his side against John. "He's getting away." The man who never once let a man go free, literally could only let the man run free. A murder at large, but for one catch of breath?

John went to put a hand to Sherlock's head, seeing if that damn fever was there again, but Sherlock convulsed forward. The throwing up part was a weekly thing now that John could only listen to, he patted the detective's back and mentally put a note down to buy more tylenol.

Living with the man being sick was hard, because John knew his line. He knew that pestering him about what was really wrong would lead to a fight neither could handle. Sherlock was allknowing with what he had, and if he wanted John to know, John would eventually be told.

* * *

_**Writer's thing(but you don't have to call me a writer because i'm not really, i'm just a girl with a computer): this time skipping story will hopefully not be too sad. I stopped it here, which I am either sorry or "you're welcome" (i don't know your life), and I will continue asap. **_


	2. Chapter 2

On this day, John woke up on the couch sitting up, a sick detective laying facing down in his lap.

"Shit, what time is it?" He holds up his wrist to his squinting eyes, reading his invisible watch. Sherlock groans, making it apparent to the Doctor that a puddle of spit sat between his legs. Hopefully it was spit.

"How about we get you up, eh?" John groaned, rubbing on Sherlock's back, remembering how hard last night was for both of them. The chills got the genius this time, no matter how many times John pleaded that telling him would make it easier, Sherlock won out with persistence.

The pale skinny man coughed painfully, then shoved his hands underneath himself, lifting his body up slow.

"Yep, that is one-hundred percent last night's dinner." John referred to the mess Sherlock left behind, thinking of ways he should clean it up. "I shouldn't have done that, but I couldn't get up in time last night, then I just... fell asleep." Sherlock apologized from the corner he seemed to always be talking from, that dark place in the room that found him.

"No, nope, no, you don't apologize for getting sick. You tried that last week, and it didn't suit you." John gave a stern look over to the other, then stood squatting. "Doesn't mean I don't owe you an apology, John." Sherlock said in his best laugh, but both knew it wasn't a joke.

...

John spent more of his days forgetting about work and more watching Sherlock go crazy with Greg refusing him on a case that desperately needed him. It seemed Sherlock was going more mentally insane than anything.

Until Mycroft found him a case.

"John, i'm off, don't wait up for me." Sherlock was dressed, fully, coat washed and everything, hair done to the last curl. John spat his coffee across the table, kicking his chair back in attempt to stop the man. "Wait up for you? I'm stopping you! You are not leaving." Foot down, John blocked the path through the door.

"Don't be daft, John. Just because I've been experiencing some health stuns, doesn't mean I can't have a rowe with a case!" It was old Sherlock, despite the thinner face and deeper eyes, the same man spoke his enthusiasm for solving mysteries.

"Health stuns? No, finding you passed out naked in the shower was a health stun! This? Cleaning up after you expell every meal? Seeing you sweat buckets and still be frozen to the bone? Not knowing if this is one of your good days or bad? No, those were beyond health stuns." John licked at the sore in his mouth, not giving Sherlock eye contact.

A good minute passed of Sherlock's loud breathing. Then, he sheds his coat, dropping it to the ground. "I've scared you. John, you know I don't want to. But I'm not sure I can help if it hurts you or not."

John sighed, loud, then rolled his eyes. "Because god knows you try. If there has been one unspoken promise between us, it's if you and I keep no secrets. And I know you have one now."

What was it? Terminal? Just a vaccine away? Did he need treatment? What?

"I'm going through with the case. If that means I no longer have your help, then i'm fine with it. You've wasted enough of your time." Sherlock didn't take his coat. He left it on the floor as he nudged passed.

John couldn't reply. He tried as his friend squeazed passed him, smelling of cologne and haste. He bit his tongue thinking up a retort watching him stride down each step.

He went, though, and a day passed without John knowing what happened or who got what. Up until his cell rang from Mycroft's number could he breath.

"What did you set him up to?" John was none too happy. "God forgive me, John." Mycroft whispered on the other end. "Forgive you for what?! What did you do to him?" John fought his yell coming out, "The Holmes brothers seeem to have a thing for keeping secrets, am I right? I've spent months seeing Sherlock deteriorate without knowing what he's got, and you've probably known all along. Am. I. Right?!"

Mycroft wheezes in and out, the ruffling of a tissue being heard. "There's a ride outside waiting for you. I've brought the family doctor to mummy's. He's safer here." The oddest thing to hear was Mycroft cry, because that was something nobody should witness.

John hung up and made way to the Holmes' mansion. He knew they had some money, but nothing compared to what the driveway read. The gates were encrusted, the driveway was soundless, and every hedge was cut to perfection. "Damn." John had to admire.

But that was only a piece of a few good notes he would derive.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft went ignored, along with everyone who wasn't Sherlock, upon John's arrival. He didn't ask or need directions to the room they kept his friend in because instinct told him it was the one with the door wide open and a nurse walking through.

Time stalled as he stepped to the room, his knees gave out at the familiar smell of 'hospital', and he desperately caught his balance on the doorhandle. Sherlock being the patient isn't right at all.

"Just leave me, I don't need your soup or ice water." John heard him inside, seconds later witnessing a nurse in grey walk out none too thrilled.

It was now or never, John thought, and took his first steps into the Further. Sherlock was first to speak, "You were right. Though, i'm sure that has already crossed your mind." Sherlock looked almost as he did before, maybe a small bit paler.

"Maybe I just know when to stop? You've got to stop and think sometimes. I could have really helped you sooner if you'd just-" One of the first things John was doing was asking again. Fights break out that way, both know.

"-Tell you? Fine, it's cancer." Sherlock spat out the word like he'd spit his food out most nights. His face read how tired he was from keeping that all the time, especially from his beloved John.

And John always thought he'd go crashing to the ground when he heard those words. He imagined going limp, sobbing, begging Sherlock to just live. But, something else was on his agenda. He'd never thought he'd say-

"And we've fought _villains _worse than that, haven't we?" -Then step all to quickly, dizzingly fast to Sherlock's bedside, cradling his head as swift and delicately as possible, then kneel to give the runny-nosed, vomit-perfumed, boney man a taste of a kiss. Short, brief, much how children give their siblings a goodnight kiss.

Because John has seen the worse of him, John has had to throw him in the tub and spray him down and strip him of his clothes, he's had to pry a needle from his arm and give him a basic drug lecture, John Hamish Watson has woken up cuddling with his friend, not because they had a homoerotic night but because of Sherlock's shakes. John has heard Sherlock whimper for him, begging for it to stop. Death isn't as bad as that. Nothing is worse.

"Yeah, we have." Sherlock's petite arm holds John close by the nape of his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

John spent a week at the Holmes', listening to mummy's forties music and Mycroft's phone vibrate. He sat by Sherlock's bed most of the time, but Sherlock himself rarely spoke.

It was he who felt out of place. This whole time he couldn't put into words how much he owed his friend. Sherlock felt personally guilty, he felt almost introuble.

Not even Sherlock Holmes could tell himself, "That if you release everything that plagues your mind, in a small fit of luck, you will get better." But he knew it was true.

It was cancer, the kind that has killed their dear Uncle, the type that runs through your blood, it was. And it only got worse, to most. Sherlock woke up on a Sunday evening, needle being poked through his arm and a stern faced brother looking him square in the eye.

"What the hell are you doing to me?" Sherlock smacked the elder doctor's arm away. Mycroft snorts displeased, "You've went four months, two weeks, one day, and six hours without treatment whatsoever, dear brother." A bag of solution is placed above Sherlock's head where his other IV sits, "It's time to start the therapy unless you crave dying."

Mycroft was being dramatic. Sherlock had a good six months without treatment before any serious internal organ faliure, but John didn't. He scrambles from his chair, the one he had lulled off at, "What? Fuck sherlock, I know you were doing bad, but you didn't even help yourself?!"

Two. Two outraged men onlooked Sherlock.

"I saw no need in quickening my end. Chemotherapy did just that with Uncle, remember Mycroft?"

John and the other Holmes boy stared a moment, and John just couldn't believe his eyes. He scoffed, rolling his eyes and throwing a hand to his head. "So, this all... Let me get this straight..." John didn't, wouldn't, couldn't look at anyone, "Because of this Uncle, who... and forgive me for saying this... fucking killed himself for, god forbid, wanting to get himself rid of any self harming cells in his bloody body... Because of him, you won't even have one try at chemo? Even when you are in one of the better stages of cancer?"

John just didn't understand how influenced this unnamed Uncle was on him.

"That's not all, John." Sherlock sat up, joints popped in the process. "Oh please, just tell me! Quit this secret shit because one of them has already tried to kill you." The army doctor suppressed his yell while the greying, family doctor fled the room.

"Right, Mycroft, privacy please." The words left Sherlock's mouth and Mycroft was quick to reply, "I refuse, and would be chuffed to hear what you have to say." John nods, "Agreed, enlighten us."

Sherlock shrivels again, to that corner he knows too well, a place he once frequented in his teen years. The room, tall windows open, a roomy, comfortable place, turns colorless. "I'd rather it stay in confidentiality, considering it has to do with my personal emotion and John alone." Or, in John's translated version that he revised in his head, "I desperately need to share my feelings with you, John."

And it scared, choked, moved John beyond any words he tried to speak, "I need to walk." So, he left the room, closing the door behind him so Mycroft wouldn't catch which hallway he took or if it was the stairs.

...

Two days pass.

On one, John tried to get into Sherlock's room, but nurses couldn't grant him access. Later that day he found out Sherlock went ahead with chemo. Despite everything Sherlock needed to say, get out, he went forward with chemo.

The third day, everyone buzzed by him in a fog. Mycroft warned him that Sherlock was having a bad day, John barely remembers replying with, "Fuck you and his bad day." Mummy Holmes caught him at lunch, forcing him to eat, "Sweetheart you haven't eaten in awhile, I insist." Father Holmes made a first appearance, going by everyone much like John was, then again, Father Holmes was said not to be a people's man.

Two in the afternoon came by, and he finally had enough. What was Sherlock going to say? How could knowing whatever he was going to say make anything better? But sitting on your ass would cement the last question to a 'It won't'.

John creaked in the room. It smelled funny, like the disgusting drag he made his patience in the military drink when they couldn't keep food down. He hasn't smelled that in a decade, though.

"Hey, feeling off, yeah?" He sweet talked the genius whose closed eye clenched then slivered open. The first thing he did was roll forward and spew stomach content onto the floor. John ran to him, leaning him back and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "I want to hear what you had to say. Sound nice, hm? And nobody is coming in, I promise."

The detective looked with sleepy eyes to his doctor, smiling with one corner of his mouth. "You want to hear or have to?"

The other looked to him fondly, "I want to hear it so badly, that I have to."


	5. Chapter 5

"How long now?" John was backed away, standing not to close and just in his reach.

"Since that first night, I presume." Sherlock's alienated eyes tried to hard to keep up with solid eye contact.

"And telling me this will help you?" He prepared himself for his dying friend's words.

"Immencely, I've had too long now to figure that much out." Sherlock's teeth clicked against each other.

John nods, "Alright, then, I'm not positive that i'm ready, but seeing as you are that is good enough." He mentally readied and reassured himself, knowing that Sherlock feeling anything but joy after solving a murder is delicate.

A skinny to the bone hand, spotted with bruises and indented where an IV has been sitting for days reaches out and up for John's. Being taken, the hand squeazes lightly. "I would like to give you a bail-out card, a forget button, John. That whatever you are to hear should be something you truly want to, and if it is not, you can stop me anytime and walk away. Come back, then, if you like, but whatever I say is not pinned to you."

Mindlessly stroking the beaten hand with his calloused thumb, John stops, "Well, whatever it really is, it must be important to you, so there will be no leaving and no forgetting. Pinning it to me is the only thing I think it right this moment, so pin all you want." John feels the hand retract.

"I'll make this short then."

...

One of the few things you can't say when being acquainted with Sherlock is, you've seen everything. You haven't. One second you are talking to him the next you are in a glorious, tall, unrealistic building with every inch of every floor, counter, even ceiling capable of being read.

John knows he is still sitting beside Sherlock, but it doesn't mean he cannot see something else. John was transported, pushed forth to a place he's always dreamed of. An indescribable, yet full of words, place. Candelabra's lighting up a main hallway, silk red and black embroidered fabric climbing up the two staircases. "Beautiful." John awed.

Sherlock grinned, "Follow me." Making John realize again he was not alone, this was Sherlock's palace, a place he's spent his life creating. He follows, going slow to savor the history this place seems to hold. John looks to Sherlock, seeing he isn't unhealthy anymore. He looks like the old Sherlock with questionable life choices and the body of a runner. Sherlock wanted to show John the mind palace, and feared John wouldn't like it. Right?

"Where are we going?" John asks, seeing another luscious hallway as they ascend the stairs.

"I guess this starts with an apology, John." The detective began speaking, ignoring John's words, or not hearing them, who knows. "As I lay pathetically over you, everyday for four months, you stayed." As they started passing by these doors, Sherlock opens them, not going inside but walking passed. "You've fed me, bathed me, held me, while I continuously sit there looking up to you." John realizes as the doors are opened, a light fog releases. "I tried to tell you once, I did. But that was a _bad day."_

Now, John sees he can't talk, his throat is swelling with the pain of remembering. He remembers Sherlock looking to him.

"I guess in simplest form..." Sherlock stops abrubt, John realizes this was the end of the hallway, the last door, bigger and more intricate than the others, stopping them. "I'd have to say..." He turns, looking to John with a face aged twenty years, yet as young as a teens.

John blinks, wildly, the room becoming out of focus. Sherlock's face is changing, thinning, cheek bones prominent, pale.

...

They are back. They never left.

"What? What do you have to say?" John's hands touched, framed Sherlock's face to bring himself down to earth, to remind himself it was only a daydream. He guesses. They are still in the Holmes' mansion, in the small room reinforced as a hospital where Sherlock lay dying, being eaten alive by the oversized hospital bed.

"I always have John, since I met you, whether it be platonic or not. I love you." John temporarily frozen, hears Sherlock wheeze in and out, "And I am so desperately sorry."


	6. Chapter 6

He sat there, hands holding the other's face. Then, he felt the onset of tears, that stinging in his throat prominent, a pain rose through his nose and through his eyes.

Did he hear him right? Love is an intense feeling of deep affection, it's a person or thing one associates this feeling for, but Sherlock used it as a verb. An ongoing verb. Sherlock feels a deep romantic or sexual attachment to John.

Then, Sherlock had the guts to apologize again. He puts the strain of emotion bottle to platonic love, then lay there feeling sorry for John.

His head falls, resting beside Sherlock's sick body, with the uncomfortable feel of laying in your own tears. John lets it out, crying like a lost child because he feels the weight again. Harder than before. Sherlock _is _dying at the moment, and there is nothing he can do but listen to his last words.

"Nooo, don't go doing that!" Sherlock removes John's hands from his face and places his own hand on John's neck above the collar. "John, this has been a horrible journey. Me, watching everyone looking at me like i'm broken, sobbing, being quiet. Now, I tell you valuable information, and the only feedback I get is negative!"

Sherlock had that way of talking, and if the situation had been any different, John would have gone back to yelling. But John wasn't mad at Sherlock for being insensitive. He actually started giggling through the hiccup's that come with tears.

"What?" John snorts, tears still falling from his eyes, but a smile on his face as he looks up. "You are sitting there hurting, and hearing my resonse is more important?"

"I'm on too much bloody morphine right now to care, so... yes." Sherlock grows his own grin, taking his hand on the other's neck and scratching through John's hair. John giggles once more then scoots closer.

"Fine, I'll give you your freaking feedback." Then, John licks his lips. All of a sudden he needs to buy his time. It took Sherlock months to get out what he just said, and now John has seconds to get out what he has.

Has John ever thought about it? Yes, of course, he loves Sherlock. The man did nothing but fix his drab life. But does he love him? Sherlock gave him range. Sherlock took him to his fucking mind palace. John could say 'No I don't love you', 'yes, I love you like a brother', or 'yes, I love you sexually and platonically'.

Their eyes faded away from one another. John, because he was lost in decision. And Sherlock, because he was beginning to feel like he lost. As if telling John this was a mistake and dying was the only way out.

"Look." John began, this made Sherlock scoff because he was looking, he has always been looking and now John's telling him to look? "You've obviously had more time to think. Well, you know I do love you, Sherlock. And I've always told you and everyone else who's thought differently, that I am not gay..."

Sherlock cocks his head, "So, you love me to the extent of brotherhood."

John shakes his head, "No, no-"

"So, you'd have sex with me?" Sherlock again tries to quick to derive.

"What? No! I dont' know..." John pleads, getting minorly upset.

"So you know you love me but you can't put a label on it?"

John sighs, the tears drying quick. Conversing with Sherlock will never be easy. "That's what i'm getting at. I need time."

Sherlock shakes his head, breathing shallow, "Don't we all..." Looking away, John knows Sherlock means time to live. The clock ticks, and without the answer properly said, chemo makes the clock tick just a few 'tick-tocks' ahead.

Then, John knows he must make up his mind. John knows that pent up question has made Sherlock have more bad days than good. Maybe after Sherlock is better he can properly think about their relationship, and possibly even bring things to how they were before.

John gets up, bringing his hand to Sherlock's chest, just setting it there, feeling the soft heartbeat underneath. He gets Sherlock attention, his head turning slowly to look up at John with grey, hopeless eyes. And John leaned and kissed his friend, not like before, not like the brotherly kiss he gave out of pity. This was to show Sherlock he made up his mind, and he wanted Sherlock as his own. He nips at Sherlock poutful lips until they give him some kind of response.

John, being so concentrated on lipwork, sees Sherlock is staring back at him with his alienated, shocked eyes. The pupil retracts and contracts, slimming down the colorful iris. Dialated, he is making Sherlock's eyes dialated, not to mention the heart under his hand is increasingly speeding up.

A machine soon goes off behind Sherlock, warning of the increased heartrate, but John goes to ignore it. Finally feeling Sherlock's mouth slack, John maybe not-so regretfully slips his tongue to protrude past Sherlock's teeth. And Sherlock's hand grips onto John's shirt, and he kisses back, scraping his teeth over John's tongue and pulling more of him in. It's soft, smooth, and nothing he'd expect from Sherlock.

But the little kiss had to end at some point, that being when Mycroft comes to assess the situation after hearing the frightful machine beeping.

* * *

**AN: Hey again... ummm... Series 3 is too close for comfort, so I may be out for a few days, if I get any good response from this new chap though, I may have to update sooner :) Love you forever and always as long as i'm living!**


	7. Chapter 7

Being gripped by the nape of your neck and forcefully knocked into the closest chair, just to be looked down on, was the first of it. Luckily, it was only Mycroft and after one minute, he softened to the idea.

But the idea... that hey, maybe John's gay... was a lie as of right now. Or a very poorly thought out impulse decision on saving your friend. It felt wrong to be insincere, but right for Sherlock's betterment.

And betterment may be the key. That night, was a good night for Sherlock. John spent most of the night holding Sherlock's hand over the nightstand, and then two hours snoozing like that. The doctors called it a miracle, even lowered Sherlock's morphine dosage. The corresponding morning, Sherlock held down a biscuit.

It was good, and John felt relief as he watch him reverse that small amount in one day. In retrospect, if all Sherlock needed was a good snog, loving words, and a bit of hand holding, he would have done it sooner.

The eyes, though, as the few days passed, he knew Mycroft mingled the gossip throughout the house. He's seen this kind of attention before with Harry. At their last Christmas dinner they celebrated as a Watson family, John sadly partook in the disapproving glares.

But that was before, and this was different. If he could just tell Mycroft in a low key way that this wasn't for lust ridden love, it would clear the air. Maybe the eyes would stop and his skin would feel comfortable again.

That could wait, however, until after Sherlock's second chemo treatment.

The room was heavily sanitized, smelling tacky and overdone. The lights as well were dimmed, reminding possibly everyone of a funeral. Then, there was Sherlock, sitting profoundly in the middle of the room, stuck, fingers tapping in hopes the pain would be quick.

Actually, hospitals were better. To John. Because in a hospital, cancer patience could sit in a room together, lay back to some telly, relate to each others pain, and recieve the blow at once. That way nobody was alone, and everyone fought as one.

Here, in the Holmes mansion, it was downright pathetic and dark. And John this time was unspokenly obligated to be there for Sherlock now. Mycroft's face read that if he was going to stick his tongue down Sherlock's throat then he should at least hold Sherlock's hand when other unsavory things go to and from that same throat.

Sherlock reaches and recieves a glass of water (not really water but they're calling it water), and sips it down, long gulp after drawn out long gulp. Taking the usual side by his bed, John takes and hands the empty glass to a nurse.

Everyone seems to be mumbling and snickering about nonesense, and that's what it is, nonesense. One man, and a room full of people who say they care. Those people are resorting to sharing secrets about him all the while looking him in the eye. A hospital is way better than this.

"You will experience the same symptoms as before; a stinging around the IV, light headedness, nausea, upset stom-" The elder doctor is cut off by Sherlock himself. "Please stop lecturing me, my tempur has remained intact and is vile as ever." John normally wouldn't laugh during a serious time as this, and really, didn't feel a need to now. Yet, he finds himself staring the grey haird man in the face, a rumbling coming from his chest.

John was going to make this the best chemo possible. If people had their feelings hurt, they could suck the fuck up. And if he was going to play the boyfriend who wants his other half to be okay part, then they had to suck the double fuck up.

And it set in motion. The crowd of people would thick and thin wildly within the first half, coming in and out, cell phones in and out. And nobody, not even Mycroft nor mummy Holmes would approach the bed while John held an anchor on Sherlock hand. The embrace was a small touch, but a big meaning.

"John, I suspect Aunt Lores has laced the brownies she baked for me with weed." Sherlock talks under the hum of electric appliances, leaning toward John but looking ahead. John would've questioned where that thought came from, but realizes his reason for today. If Sherlock was feeling up for gossip, he would happily partake.

"Oh, have you eaten any?" John looks up at Aunt Lores, a decrepit hunched retired sales lady, with years on her motor. "No, but Mycroft ate three fourths of one before realizing too late. He thinks he's the only one who knows... and i'm positive he's hallucinating."

John's eyes flick to Mycroft, holding his cell phone either an inch from his face or an arms length away, swaying just slightly. "Yeah, he's tripping just a bit." John looks to Sherlock, trying his best to deduce how he's feeling, his jaw jutting out.

"He's texting Anthea actually." Sherlock wriggles John's grip on his hand to mindlessly move his hand up his army doctor's arm, squeezing to feel the flesh under the fabric. John looks to Mycroft one last time, forgetting whatever funny pun to ask a real question. "And you. You're doing better, yeah?"

Turning his head as always, Sherlock puts on a windblown face. "All in all, dear Watson, I am. You, in a manner of speaking, saved me. Now, I think you know that. But you've cut loose a weight that has tied to my chest. And I thank you for it..." Sherlock, still struggling with sentimentalilty, smiles. "...And I love you for it."

John's stomach turns, and he has to swallow that pang. "I will love you till the end." And it isn't a lie. John does love him to a certain extent, and that extent seems to grow everyday.

The second half of the chemo is harder, seems like it takes longer. Mycroft ends up in the kitchen eating all of mummy Holmes' sweets, which gives the boys a bit of a breather. But only a small breath. Sherlock ends up needing everyone, but his love, out of the room. Sherlock tiffs at the nurse to get his third run of morphine ready, and asks for John's help to get out of the bed. They then unhook him momentarily from all machines.

Sherlock lurks slow, head down but eyes on John whose infront of him. He just stands there for awhile, the doctor with a pink bucket just incase he gets sick. Which Sherlock does get sick. John just holds him, hands under Sherlock's arms, staring at him. With him on his feet, looking at him now, John gets the reminder that Sherlock does look different than the day he left for that case.

It's an odd-different, though. Sherlock may be skinnier than before, but he looks generally healthier, he gets that normal flush in his cheeks after puking everywhere. It's as if he had the flu, almost as if. Just a few more pounds put on his body.

Sherlock mutters under his breath, with him feeling better now they had the catheter removed permanently removed, and him having to tell everyone he needs help going to the restroom isn't his _ideal _thing. Giving up on trying to say he needs to piss for the twentieth time, Sherlock just points to that narrow door that blends in with the white room.

"You need to go?" John questions.

The old doctor tries to intervene, tries to take John off of Sherlock. But he protests, Sherlock frantically shakes his finger at the doctor, for once, not cussing him out, though he thoroughly wanted to. He ignores any help, even John's, and waddles painfully slow to the bathroom. John just looks given up at the elder doctor and goes to Sherlock, taking his elbow and hand.

"You don't have to this time." Sherlock promises.

"You're mine, remember? I want to." John kisses Sherlock on the cheek, even inhaled his scent before doing so, making Sherlock smile again. "Thanks."

The bathroom, John finds, has been put to use. Sherlock's razor sits by the sink, and the shower is full of the usual Sherlock products. "I'll just wait outside, alright..." John thinks quick, mind clicking its gears, "..dear?" Sherlock stands in the middle of the small room, hunched a bit and looking to his love, "I'll knock for you."

John nods, closing the door behind him quietly, giving the other doctor another look.

John doesn't listen, but he waits until the sinks water begins to run, and he awaits for it to turn off. "Sherlock, can I come in?" Impatient for him to get back to bed and rest, John calls. The water runs continually. "Sherlock."

No reply, still. John looks to the old doctor one last time, shocked, then proceeds to walk in, expecting nothing because that would be too easy.


	8. Chapter 8

He was just passed out, drooled on himself a bit. It was a scare though, something John doesn't ever expect, even when he did it everyday. And then, John in that moment, was truthfully thinking that his boyfriend was in serious danger. Boyfriend. That word he would say then really mean, friend.

Apparently, all Sherlock needed was to eat. Chemo had a range of effects on your body, sometimes you got hungry, sometimes you needed a feeding tube to force you to eat.

Getting him back to bed, against Sherlock's will, the needles and medicine went in. Mummy was alerted by a nurse of dinner early, and made Sherlock a favorite John wasn't aware of. "Beans and toast?" John said calmly.

"Yes, i'd eat this everyday after school." Sherlock shoved a mouthful of beans in his mouth, almost humming in the taste.

"Beans. Beans AND BLOODY TOAST, SHERLOCK?!" John said it more outraged than loud, pointing at the plate of simple food. "What, is it a crime?" Sherlock cocked his head back, covering his mouth. "No, it's just everytime I would make us dinner and asked for suggestions, you said nothing.. Letting me burn a roast chicken once or twice!" John sat back in his chair, watching him eat, glad he was eating.

"I like your burnt chicken too."

...

Night settled in. But neither boy was asleep. John found Sherlock liked for him to sit on the side of his bed, arguing sometimes but it was a mutual agreement that nothing would be held against the other. This night, it was a good sort of quiet, Sherlock splaying his fingers over John's hand, feeling his pulse, scratching over the lines over his palm, holding his hand...

"You scared me today." John stops Sherlock's twiddling, bringing his hand up and kissing his knuckles. "I was just hungry. Everybody passes out if they haven't eaten in awhile, it was nothing to do with the..." Tired of mentioning 'cancer', Sherlock just leaves it out.

"I know." It was an open ended response.

Piercing his lips, Sherlock leans his hand up again, ushering John to kiss it again. Which John of course does, twice, three times. Leaving his frown behind, Sherlock, bashfully leans up on his other elbow, exposing more of his milk white arm to John.

"Is this smart? Any more of this and your machine will..." John lifts his arms, charading what an alarm would sound or look like. Sherlock jumps back, head bouncing in his pillows. "I guess not..."

But he's fumbling too, with the little clamp that caused them trouble last time. Turning it off. "Sherlock." John attempts. But Sherlock shrugs around in the bed, his legs rubbing against each other, back lifting subtly up. "...It's just, John..." Sherlock hums his name out in a long whisper, "...for once i'd like to forget about the neutrality or extremity of being ill." His eyes scan over John's face, "Understand?" Or, do you know what I mean.

John looks to Sherlock, a bit terrified, "Your forhead, you're sweating! Are you feeling-" A warm hand, this time, sensually rushes up John's arm, "I'm feeling more than fine." And John gets it. John is mentally knocked out, a sudden windstorm telling him to stop and think. But his body knows what he must do, for Sherlock, and grabs that hand. In all of the spontaneous, come-on's, this was the wildlest one John's experienced, and John was about to do it.

The long, skinny but manly fingers spread out in John's grip, his head moves in, and takes Sherlock's longest finger, middle finger, in his mouth. His tongue smoothens and covers what it can of the appendage. Sherlock lets out a whiny, wanton moan close to a whimper.

Wrong. They were at a family's home, they were just down the hall from Sherlock's brother, the doctor could walk in if he liked. But John loved it, he loved seeing Sherlock this happy. He loved how feminine he could make his friend look.

John realizes he loves it, too. This was sexual. And he's liking it. This was with Sherlock, a man, his friend. And he's fucking loving it.

John pops off the finger, loudly with a string of spit connecting the ring finger. "Oh fuck."


	9. Chapter 9

Friends don't let friends give each other raunchy half hand half blow jobs, do they?

Friends also don't let friends... swallow, but that's keeping it clean. Which it wasn't.

For John to be the one pleasuring Sherlock, it really brought John a sexualized, adrenaline high. John was giggling, possibly groaning louder than Sherlock and he was the one untouched. It only got John off more knowing he was making Sherlock feel this way when Sherlock was self acclaimed as dormant of sex, against relationship of any gender.

"You could have cured my cancer doing that." Sherlock, seconds after being cleaned up by John, showed his teeth in a smile to him, breathing hard labored breaths. "Cured it? I cured every disease known to man!" John smiled too, because it was dangerous. Having a type of sex in Sherlock's parent's home, being in a relationship with Sherlock, just being around him, it was a hell ton of danger that John craved so badly.

Sherlock hums happily, sitting back after he gives John one last peck, then puts the heart monitor back where it should be. "I'd tell you that I owe you one, but it seems as you're feeling quite satisfied." Still trying to smoothen the wrinkles in the sheets he created, John grins. "You just don't worry about it, it's time you slept anyway."

As he leans in to give his favorite, temporarily off-job, detective a tender mouth to the curls on his head, John lets a realization creep through his nerves. He turns out the light in the room, but doesn't leave still. It's dark as he makes his way back into that small chair that's too thin for any comfort.

_'What have I done?' _Thinking to himself, John doesn't mean what he's done to Sherlock. What he did to Sherlock was necessary and right. But what John has done to himself, what his brain and chest made him do... well, John didn't know what it was. Not yet.

...

Weeks pass like this. Months. And Sherlock is becoming as fit as the fiddle his violin is not. The doctor's say they can leave, the doctor's say treatment can undergo safely back in London. But Sherlock doesn't agree to. John's fine with staying here for awhile longer, but he'd like to know why he's still eating dinner beside father Holmes and his inhalation of food.

"I thought you didn't like being at your parents?" John finally brings up as Sherlock's finally in another room besides the hospital one, stretched back in a recliner reading. "I don't, and I hope to never step foot here again." Overexaggerating, Sherlock makes a horrid face, then chuckles.

"Okay, I get that. But why did you suggest staying?" John scratched at his temple, sitting on the ottoman beside his love.

The genius closes his book, an outdated encyclopedia. "Aunt Lores and Uncle are leaving this weekend John, and I fear there won't be a next time to properly send them off. Not to mention the longer I am here, the longer Mycroft is away from his Anthea and sees how much he really misses her. Double reasoning, John, though i'm not expecting you to stay in this hell hole any longer."

Shaking his head, John feels Sherlock is coming back, or his real self is surfacing once more. "I'm fine wherever you are. This hell hole is alot nicer than mine." John gets to stand, putting a fond but quick hand on Sherlock's shoulder and makes to leave.

"Oh, and John?" Sherlock's statement stops the other. "Thank you for lying to me. Most only lie to protect themselves, and you've done it all for me."

John's head cackles with frustrated laughter, but he stays calm, nodding not looking over. And exits.

* * *

**AN: It's kind of funny my story is about cancer... Ironic, in my way. I say this because I may be gone for awhile, no updates. Don't worry, I have time now to finish this one at least. Bye my little lovelies and see you next chapter!**


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